


Sentinel

by fansofcollisions



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 15:28:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fansofcollisions/pseuds/fansofcollisions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel has an odd propensity for encountering lost souls on lonely roads.</p>
<p>Supernatural/Les Miserables crossover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sentinel

**Author's Note:**

> A while back, my friend drew the cutest picture of Castiel as Valjean's guardian angel, of sorts. I felt inspired.

Angels have a strict policy of non-interference. It’s right up there with ‘don’t go throwing minor galaxies around for kicks’ on the list of punishable offences.  And for the most part, everybody follows the letter of the law. Those that don’t, well, they get very good at concealing it.

There’s nothing illicit in observation, however. It would be apt to say it’s encouraged. And how else should beings with endless lifespan and limited amusements pass the time? The Messiah’s come and gone. That era of expectation is finished, and everyone’s a little fuzzy on when the final chapter’s going to be set in motion. Nothing to do but sit and watch.

And it’s fascinating-really, it is- watching all those little lives bustling around, so many specks of dust drifting about in the wind. But even that grows dull after a time.

Castiel is inquisitive, he always has been. He loves to listen to the conversations of the animals, to drift through forests of ceaseless renewal and calling birds, to be caught up in the lash of heavy rain against a bolted door. Nature fascinates him endlessly. He takes little liking to Earth’s particularly favoured breed of life form, however. They’re little more than devourers of the creation he so loves. Selfish to the core.

Perhaps it is blasphemous to think of them in this way, so he tries not to think much on them at all.

Still, he’s not cruel. He recognizes the hardships they endure and does his best to ease them when he can. Nobody’s supposed to meddle, but surely dulling the suffering of a consumption-stricken child could not be reproached? If Gabriel may have his human women and play his games without reprimand, he reasons his own interference doesn’t come with much risk.

He doesn’t know who watches his every movement, assessing and evaluating and supposing, supposing... If he did, he might have been more careful.  It takes 200-odd years for him to learn what his disobedience has earned him. It takes a few years longer than that to decide whether it was a reward or a punishment.

\---xxx---xxx---xxx---

_France, 1815. Evening. Rain falls._

Castiel hasn’t yet learned to fear thunder.

He’s caught up in the power of the storm, letting it fuse with his essence and channel through him, around him. He threads a song through the droplets, praising his Father on high for the beauty of the night and the water to nourish the Earth. He feels full and overwhelmed, and so nearly misses the shattered, sputtering flame of a nearby soul in the darkness.

He does not hear, but rather senses the uplifted prayers torn with bitterness from the man’s lips. A deranged, starving, wretched creature, stumbling blind in the darkness, alternating pleas and curses to the heavens. Song broken, Castiel fixes his attention on the man, observes his halting movements.

Emotions are another strictly forbidden commodity for angels. Or at least that’s what the higher-ups claim. It’s a lie, in fact. Rapture, joy, unconditional praise: all are encouraged, even _demanded_. The truth is, angels feel all emotions humans do, in some form. They’re just never taught the names for them. Easier to keep everything running smoothly that way.

Which is perhaps why Castiel does not recognize the stirring within his grace, a deep pulsing around his extremities, what feels like tearing within his core. Humans might call it pity. Castiel doesn’t understand the sensation. It frightens him. He doesn’t comprehend that feeling either.

He touches the man’s eyelids with a tendril of his grace. Images flash about him: a lash, a ship, scraps of dirty cloth, a metal bracelet etched crudely with five numbers. A man in a blue uniform, cold eyes. A name, scrawled almost illegibly onto a jailor’s form, only the ‘J’ which begins it discernible. A crying child with a swollen belly.

He pulls back. The man’s legs have given out. He’s kneeling in the mud, water seeping halfway up his thighs, head hanging limp. His muttering does not cease. Castiel stirs again, this time to action.

He will ease this man’s suffering, he resolves. He saw nothing in his mind to warrant the cruelty this man has been dealt. Beneath his blaspheming, cracked exterior there lies a flicker of goodness, Castiel can sense it. He reaches out, intending to speak to the man, offer him compassion and comfort in his sorrow. He doesn’t know what else he can do.

But it’s wrong. It all goes wrong. Castiel is a swirling edifice of light, pounding relentless like the blinding sea against the walls of a fragile human mind and the man screams out, tearing at the mangled mess of snarls upon his head.

Castiel retreats quickly, alarmed. Has he made an error? Surely he’s heard of angels entering the minds of humans before without ill effect? He’ll have to consult Gabriel on this point (there are better sources, but few less likely to turn him in for unordered interference).

The man collapses to the wet ground in a fit of spasms and shivering. The shaking wracks his body like he’s being prodded from all sides at once. Castiel feels no empathy for his suffering, only confusion.

He leaves the man sobbing into the ground, hot tears mingling with cloudy rainwater. He needs time to reflect on this. Besides, heaven is waiting.

He feels no remorse for the abandonment. The tearing sensation persists.

\---xxx---xxx---xxx---

Gabriel is absent. Castiel isn’t surprised. Disheartened, he returns to Earth, resolving to try once more before leaving the creature be. He is slightly comforted by the knowledge that the man has only a few nights left before he’s delivered from his suffering. No human could survive the elements for much longer.

He finds him staggering into a town nearby to the field where he’d first encountered him. He’s even weaker now. Again, Castiel reaches out, but the man seemingly senses his presence, though God knows what his feverish mind interprets the perception as, and takes off into a frantic, adrenaline-fueled bolt. He follows, resigned. It was only a vague hope, if any at all. Perhaps it would be better to let him die in peace. He has mere hours left as it is, and what would be the point in causing him any more suffering, should Castiel fail again?

He watches the man stumble and lurch to a set of cold stone steps and fall there, utterly spent and shaking. Castiel observes the make of the building. It’s a rectory. How peculiar. To run from God’s messenger straight towards His house.

An hour, maybe more, he waits patiently for death to take the huddled figure. Then a scraping sound cuts the air.

The door opens to the face of a kindly man. His soul shines bright and pure and Castiel lets himself bask in warmth for a moment, a pleased hum echoing through his being. After so many wicked, cruel, despairing persons passed by in the consuming mist it’s incredible to feel this lightness in the air. Castiel wonders if he might be a saint. He’s not familiar with the current generation of blessed men and women, but it’s always possible. Rachel might know. She has a fondness for such things. Perhaps he’ll ask her later.

The man of God ushers the exhausted man into the rectory. Castiel is satisfied. Maybe there is salvation for this man after all. He leaves, as soothed by the light of the bishop’s soul as the man is when he feels the warmth of the first fire he’s seen in months.

\---xxx---xxx---xxx---

That should have been the end of it. Yet Castiel finds himself returning to the rectory only a night afterwards, curiousity outweighing all other concerns. He discovers the bishop wringing his hands at the table and the man gone. The light of his goodness is masked by a murky fog of worry.

Moments later, a pair of burly guards burst through the door, dragging the ragged form of the man behind him. He face is bloodied almost beyond recognition. A sack is dropped from one of the guard’s hands, and from it spills a silver chalice, polished and damning. It’s clear what has transpired. Not a shock, really, that he would be a thief to the end. Human nature. But what happens next is indeed unexpected.

“Yes, yes. I gave these to him.” With those words, Castiel’s grace swells with affection for the bishop. It’s a selfless act, and a kind one, worthy of the memory of the cross which hangs from the man’s neck, silver like the candlesticks he now holds in his hands. “Take these two also. You forgot them in your hurry.”

Castiel thinks he is beginning to understand now. Humans have the capacity for great evil, but not all choose that path. Some choose the path of goodness, of faith. Perhaps he has misjudged these creatures. Perhaps they are not all so self-serving as he had believed.

After a few more words from the bishop, the man runs from the rectory, his bounty in hand. Castiel follows him, resolving to visit the man’s saviour at least once more to express his appreciation in some manner. He never does.

The man only stops running once he’s cleared the last buildings of the village, collapsing into the dust atop his bag of silver. Castiel anticipates with pleasure the rush of happiness the man will undoubtedly display, of gratitude and praise.

He may not be able to visit his thoughts, but he can still hear them. Eager, he opens his ear to the man’s inner voice.

_Why didn’t you let me die you bastard you fool you should have had them kill me I should be dead it could have been over it should have been over you bastard why-_

Castiel pulls back, sickened and confused. What utter ungratefulness. What arrogance, to disdain the help of such a kind-hearted man. He prepares to return to heaven, resolving from now on to leave these humans to their own devices, content himself only with nature. He can’t bear the thought of witnessing any more of this.

Only the sound of ragged weeping stops him. Hesitantly, he probes once more.

_I deserved to die I should be dead how could he do this a good man and myself as I am a wretch a vagabond worthless in God’s eyes and yet he says I have a soul to give he says I am God’s now but what would God want with one such as me why save me oh God you should have let me die-_

A light flickers on in the corner of Castiel’s mind. He still doesn’t really understand, but he’s beginning to. To not feel worthy of God’s love? That is incomprehensible. God loves all his children equally and well, why the man should question that is beyond Castiel’s ken. But to not feel worthy of the bishop’s kindness? Perhaps a concept easier to grasp.

He feels the compulsion, the pull of heaven beckoning him home. His duty calls him and he returns without question or hesitation. Still, his thoughts linger on the man and his strange reaction.

Curiousity not yet quelled, when he has a moment to spare he watches from on high as the man’s life unfolds, as he gains a new identity and prosperity and faith. And then he disappears. Castiel does not search for him. He’s learned all he can from this man, he thinks, and his interest is sated.

He never does discover his name.

\---xxx---xxx---xxx---

_France, 1832. The barricade falls._

War is the talk of heaven these days. It’s a nightmare to sift through the prayers of countless fearful widows and dying men and fatherless children. Most angels have stopped listening altogether. Castiel can’t quite bring himself to. Somebody should hear them.

It all runs together, the anguish and fear and broken screams for mercy. Except…

He hearkens to the familiar cry. A voice he’s heard before, begging for aid. Something about a boy. Castiel aches to help him, but he can’t leave his post. Not now. He’s got work to do. Perhaps in a day or so.

A day or so turns to months before Castiel remembers his intention and swoops down to Earth. He promises himself that this is the last time. From now on, he’s done interfering. Call this tying up loose ends. A chance to right a wrong. He knows more now than he did then, he might be able to provide the comfort he failed in giving all those years ago.

Castiel finds the man broken down and softly weeping in a chair, the golden hair of a young girl strewn across his lap as she kneels by his side. Castiel musters his energy and does as Gabriel has instructed him, choosing his form carefully. He glances downwards. It’s an odd sensation, as he’s never glanced downward before. He never had human eyes with which to do so. Recognition dawns on the man’s face and there’s no scream of agony falling from his lips so Castiel assumes this was indeed the correct means of intervention. There’s a boy standing beside the chair, hand on the old man’s shoulder. He follows the gaze of his elder straight to the corner in which Castiel stands, but looks away when it finds only open air. Castiel turns his hands over. The intricate embroidery of the bishop’s robes gleams in the soft candlelight.

If he were to choose a form, it would be like this man, he thinks. Devout, pious, fatherly. He longs to feel that warmth, the vibrant sense of _good_ from that night so far removed for the old man but mere moments ago in the space of Castiel’s existence. Yes, should angels ever again walk the earth, a man such as this… well, he’d rather yoke himself to no other.

The old man seams pleased to see him. Perhaps that will be comfort enough, Castiel thinks, and keeps his silence.

The boy beside the chair is intriguing. He hurts in with a bone-deep intensity, that much is obvious, but he stares at the girl with such tenderness, as though if the world should end he’d be content to live on in her eyes. It feels almost intrusive to watch them, the way they gaze at each other. Castiel wonders at it. Without his noticing, the body of the bishop tilts its head ever so slightly.

There’s a rustling of wind and Castiel turns to his side, startled. There’s a vision of a young woman there. An apparition. Her hair is cropped close to her scalp and her wan skin is drawn tightly across her bones but she is beautiful nonetheless, and Castiel sees he has lost his admirer in the old man as his attention shifts solely to her. He claws at the air, gasping. The blonde girl strokes his arm.

He’s surprised it’s taken so long. The man is fading fast, and reapers are known for being punctual. He masks his presence from the spirit. There are some things he dares not interfere in.

\---xxx---xxx---xxx---

Eyes have always been on Castiel. They see his curiousity, his risk-taking, his love of God and his devotion. He looks well for the task, well indeed.

The next duty that calls is an honour. Something like nervousness, if he knew the word for it, brushes at his consciousness. He pushes it aside. The path will be hard, grueling even, but it will be worth it.

Or so they tell him, when he calls out, ten layers down in the pit, as he watches his brothers and sisters overrun by demon spawn and thrown to the pyre, while he pushes on.

It will all be worth it.

He’s not sure if he believes them. A flicker of... of _something_ , deep inside his being, pulls at him and speaks to him in blasphemous voice. But that’s another emotion he doesn’t know the name for. Not yet.

\---xxx---xxx---xxx---

_America, 2008. Sparks fall._

There’s a knife wound in his chest that does not bleed and a frightened boy in the back of his mind, eyes closed and hands over his ears, and a frightened boy before him, helpless for all his weapons, and a fallen man at his feet.

“What’s the matter?” Castiel, for all his infinity of years, cannot comprehend it. Why this human before him should not be weeping in joy at his deliverance. Pulled from the deepest pit back to the light of the world. Renewed in body, offered a second chance at life. Surely he should be grateful? Surely he should be glad?

A darkness falls over his charge’s face, and the vision of another man flashes before Castiel’s eyes. A gaunt face, a broken shell, bowed and beaten and broken. And comprehension dawns.

“You don’t think you deserve to be saved.”

For the first time, Castiel truly understands.

\---xxx---xxx---xxx---

The tearing in his grace (though now it feels more like his chest) earns itself its proper name as he listens to the screams echoing about the iron walls of the panic room. He learns another name when two boys, a mother and daughter walk into a building, but there’s only three to share a flask of burning whiskey on the drive back. He slowly puts the words to the emotions he was told he never had to begin with. He learns that was a lie. He learns that wasn’t the only one.

He finds a reason not to regret any of it, as he puts a name to the last emotion, the one he saw reflected in the eyes of a golden-haired girl and a war-scarred youth.

It’s all worth it, if only for that.

\---xxx---xxx---xxx---

_America, 2010. Castiel falls._


End file.
